


Black Antlers

by DoctorCannoli, hannigramcracker



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Cannibalism?, I don't really know what else to say here, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-31 13:45:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoctorCannoli/pseuds/DoctorCannoli, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannigramcracker/pseuds/hannigramcracker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an evening of drinking to try to forget about Alana Bloom, Will ends up much too drunk and has to call Hannibal for a ride home. Instead of taking Will back to Wolf Trap, Hannibal brings him to his own house. Will can hardly believe where the rest of the night takes him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Antlers

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, friends. This is the first of what is likely to be many fics written by myself and the lovely DoctorCannoli. She is the best beta in the world and we write a lot of things together.

The alcohol had seemed like a good idea at the time.

When he’d left the BAU after another day of dodging Alana, of pretending not to see her and trying not to think about when he’d kissed her, when he’d put his heart on the line, when he’d stood there in his lecture hall listening to her tell him that he was too unstable for her to love, the alcohol had seemed like a good idea.

Will wasn’t so sure the alcohol was still a good idea.

At the time, he’d wanted the burn. He’d wanted to escape from his shifting, stretching, sleepwalking world and immerse himself in something real, something absolute. Like the burn of alcohol, the sweet pain of whiskey burning a trail all the way down his throat and into his belly.

But after too many shots to remember (could he even remember them anyway, as warped as his perception of time was), he doesn’t feel warm anymore. He feels cold. The fire in his belly has burned down to coals and created a heavy weight in his stomach. He thinks, absently, that he should have enjoyed this – drinking – more than he has. Because now he just feels sad. Sad and empty and lonely, always lonely. Alone in his homely little house with no one but his dogs, because no one understands him quite like they do.

Except for maybe Hannibal. Hannibal seems to understand him. Even if he doesn’t, he’s still willing to tolerate him. Confidant, friend, psychiatrist – the lines there are as blurred as his eyesight right now and Will doesn’t even know if he wants to try to draw those boundaries in his head. He supposes it doesn’t matter. Hannibal is the one person he has been able to be close to in years. He’s not sure quite _why_ he’s so drawn to the man, though.

Hannibal is kind, dependable, warm. Will chuckles to himself at that last thought. Can a person look warm? Well, if it’s possible, then Hannibal looks that way. Trustworthy. Safe and stable and solid and everything that Will himself is not. Especially now, with the alcohol coursing through his veins, making him dizzy as the world dips and spins around him every time he blinks or turns his head. He feels that way around Hannibal sometimes, a bit lost and out of his depth. It’s just that Hannibal is so daunting, so brilliant and shining that will feels an inexplicable apprehension in his gut. Being around Hannibal makes him feel just a bit unstable, but a good sort of unstable.

Will reaches out and finishes the last of his drink, wincing at the bite of the whiskey. He shakes his head to clear it and immediately regrets it. His stomach rebels and his equilibrium shifts, causing him to reach out and grip the edge of the bar with both hands. He feels a slight pressure on his arm and looks down.

It’s a woman’s hand, bright red fingernails on soft white skin. His eyes trail up her fingers to her arm and face. For the first time, he notices there’s a woman sitting next to him.

She smiles at him, but her eyes betray a slight concern even as she laughs and cautions him to be careful. Will wonders how long she’s been sitting there. Is this the first interaction they’ve had? Had he been speaking with her before this moment? Oh god, he can’t remember. Is this an effect of the alcohol, or has he lost time again?

He glances over the woman again. Her face is soft and her breasts are rather large and she’s not unattractive, but something here doesn’t feel right. None of this feels right – the dim lights, the incessant chatter around him, the smell of sweat and smoke, the taste of whiskey under his tongue. He was wrong. So wrong. This isn’t what he wants. He doesn’t want a stranger. He wants someone he knows and can trust.

Before his brain can catch up with his hands, Will fishes in his pocket for his phone and fires off a text to the only person he can think of: Hannibal. He stares at the screen once he’s finished, blinking at the harsh light of his phone’s little screen and trying to decipher what he’s just sent: _I need udiu gif come or gem._

God, he’s more drunk that he thought. Better just to call. He doesn’t want Hannibal to worry unnecessarily. Although, maybe Hannibal should worry; _he_ certainly is.

Ignoring the woman at his side, Will presses the phone to one ear and jams his hand over the other, barely muffling the noise around him. He waits an eternity as the phone rings once, twice…

“Will…?” Will’s whole body relaxes at the sound of Hannibal’s voice. The pleasure of being known, of being recognized floods through his blood. Hannibal’s voice is smooth as ever on the phone, asking him questions, too many for him to process, to answer. Will only has one answer.

“My name is Will Graham. I’m in the Black Antlers bar on Main Street in Baltimore, Maryland. It’s 1:07am. I need you to come get me.”

Hannibal immediately asks if he’s okay, attempting to triage the situation, but Will can’t answer. He’s not sure if he’s okay. He’s not sure when he got here or how he got here, or what he said to this woman that made her cozy up beside him and talk and talk and talk. He’s sweating now and he can’t feel the tips of his fingers or the insides of his knees and with every passing second he feels like his heart is going to beat right outside his chest. He doesn’t know anything. All he can do is repeat his request.

“Please… please… Hannibal… I need you to come get me.”

There is a loud noise on Hannibal’s end, like a cupboard being shut or a door slamming, and Hannibal is promising that he is on his way. Will just has to sit right where he is and Hannibal will come to him. He’ll be right there in five minutes if he just sits still.

Right. Easy.

He hangs up the phone and the woman at his side smiles in a way that’s supposed to be alluring but comes off as desperate. Will sees an ulterior motive in her actions. Even drunk, he can still read body language better than most. She’s just looking for attention, a flirt, a quick fuck in the bathroom, but Will can’t give her that. He knows that. He’s not into her, doesn’t want to sleep with her, doesn’t even want her anywhere close to him. Her smile is as fake as her too-large breasts and he’s had enough of fake. He wants real. He wants real and solid and where the fuck is Hannibal?

The bartender hands him another whiskey. Why? Has he ordered a drink? Did the woman? He’s too far gone to tell and, against all better judgment, he drinks it down. It’s acrid and bitter and he chokes on the end of it. He sets the shot glass down and his empty hands tremble. He clasps them in front of him to disguise it, to attempt to hold himself together.

The woman is talking, flashing her teeth, but all he can hear is the smack of the cue ball as it scatters the rest of the set on the pool table behind him. He swallows and closes his eyes, hoping, praying that Doctor Lecter will arrive soon. He listens to the hard shiny plastic of the billiard balls as they knock against each other and feels them ricochet around inside of his skull. His mind is a pool table, the balls each of his thoughts hitting each other and careening this way and that. His line of work is the cue ball to his life, the catalyst, the thing that sets the rest of his thoughts in motion.

Sometimes these round, colorful thoughts get so out of control he does not know how to contain them, and it is these times when he accidentally knocks the eight ball into the pocket before the time is due. He has to give up, admit defeat, only to start again. It gets harder to start again by himself every single time, however, and he is coming to notice that Hannibal acts as the smooth triangular piece of wood that racks his thoughts up and back together again. Hannibal schools his erratic mental state into something that has a facade of order, something that can be played with and broken apart again and again… and then he realizes the woman is touching him again, wrist to elbow to shoulder to chin and back again. Her nails are too long and too glossy and too red. Red like the three ball. Red like blood.

The world tilts strangely and Will calmly entertains the fact that he may vomit all over this woman’s too-tight skirt. He screws his eyes shut and the bartender’s low bass cuts through her piercing soprano voice and asks if he’s okay – they’re always, ALWAYS wanting to know is he okay – and tells him he’s cut off. Will breathes deeply, feeling sick and sicker, but he hears the jingle of the antiquated bell above the door and when he opens his eyes, all he can see is Hannibal, his reflection in the mirror behind the bar growing larger and larger as he gets closer and closer. Hannibal doesn’t cross the room so much as glide across it. Fuck, he’s so tall, so imposing and impressive. Doctor Lecter doesn’t belong in a bar like this.

But Doctor Lecter is here, and in a few moments that stutter and snag inside Will's head, he is behind him. Thank god… he’s safe at last.

>>>>

All it takes is one look and Hannibal can tell just how severely drunk Will is. He’d known Will was in a bad way when he’d picked up the phone, but he hadn’t realized he was quite so far gone as this.

Dragging his eyes away from the dark tangled mess of curls that is the top of Will’s head, Hannibal’s gaze falls on red fingernails and follows them up a slender arm to feminine face he is not familiar with. She smiles at him, a sickly sweet placating smile, but Hannibal is not amused. Before he can speak to her, Will leans back into his stomach and looks up at him with large distant eyes, obviously pleased to see him. In response, the woman tightens her grip around Will’s wrist, as if to stake her claim on him. At the increased pressure of her touch, a whimper escapes from the back of Will’s throat. Hannibal hears it in an instant, but he is sure the woman has not.

“Hannibal... can we-” Will begins, only to be cut off by the woman to his left.

“Listen, honey, don't let him take you away,” she purrs, her hand dropping to Will’s thigh. “I can blow you better than your boyfriend can, I promise you that.”

Hannibal feels his blood turn to ice and his throat heat up. He wants this woman, right now. He wants her in the alley behind this dive, bleeding out and still warm as he tears into her and removes the tastiest bits, leaving out her very obviously fake tits and ass in favor of the real functioning parts that pump blood through her plastic-coated veins.

Hannibal blinks and casually places a hand on Will's shoulder, giving the woman what could be considered a smile, but is more akin to baring his teeth. She tugs on Will's arm, and Hannibal can hear his breathing speed up.

“Pleasestoptouchingme,” Will whispers, all one word. Between the alcohol and the unwanted physical touch, Will is over-stimulated, of that. Hannibal is sure. He needs this woman's hands off of Will right now.

“You have no idea what I am capable of,” Hannibal says to this woman, low and menacing.

“I know I can do better. I've been told.”

“You are being very rude,” Hannibal warns in an even, measured tone. She opens her lipsticked mouth in a soft 'O' shape that Hannibal is certain her muscles are quite familiar with, but she is prevented from answering as the bartender brings Will's bill to the trio of them. Hannibal roughly reaches between Will and the woman, effectively severing her hand from Will’s forearm as he reaches for the slip of paper. Hannibal raises his eyebrows at the amount on Will's tab, impressed that Will is still sitting (mostly) upright with the amount of alcohol he has inside of him. He places down a large bill and shifts Will slightly so he can place his arm around Will’s shoulders. He notices how the woman’s handprint lingers on Will’s arm, a shade slightly pinker against his pale skin.

“Hannibal, will you take me home? Will you please take me home?” He is mumbling, his words are slurred, and Hannibal can smell the alcohol on his breath.

 

“I plan to take you to my home. It is much closer,” Hannibal explains as he helps Will to his feet. Will immediately leans on him, using the taller man to support himself, and Hannibal takes his weight easily. Again, the woman reaches for Will. She obviously doesn’t know when to quit. Hannibal turns and gives her a piercing look. He imagines the red spurting and falling from her, staining the bar and everyone around her. “Goodnight,” he says curtly. “Have a good evening, ma'am.”

As they make their way to the door, Hannibal ignores the looks the pair of them are getting from the burly men scattered around this bar. Rude bastards. Obviously, no one taught them that it is impolite to stare. It takes some work to keep himself from visualizing their deaths. Although, he isn't sure their flabby beer-fed skin and muscles would taste good, even with the best of dressings.

After what seems like an eternity, Hannibal finally gets Will to his car. He opens the passenger door and helps Will in, leaving him to attempt to buckle himself as he walks around the car and slips into driver seat. Will is still struggling with the strap as Hannibal starts the car, and Hannibal can feel him getting more and more frustrated. Hannibal sighs and reaches over, across Will, to buckle him into the seat.

“We have a bit of drive ahead of us. Do not hesitate to tell me if you need anything at all.” Will nods slowly, his head leaning against the window, his eyes already shut.

As he pulls away from the curb, Hannibal breathes in deeply, drinking in the scent of Will. He smells of maple woodsmoke, ship-on-the-bottle cologne, sweat, and dogs. He smells enticing and wonderful. Hannibal can smell every nightmare, every panic attack, every moment Will has ever lost. He can smell the cheap soap that was in the dispensers in the bathroom of the bar stuck underneath Will's fingernails. But above all, Hannibal can smell this whiskey he has been drinking all night long. He can smell every last drop, and the hint of a cigarette or two clinging on his clothes, but Hannibal can't tell whether Will or someone next to him smoked them. Hannibal decides that while it wouldn't be a surprise to find out Will smoked, it is more likely that the smell came from the woman who had been hanging on him all night. He can smell her as well, the faint traces of her perfume and the fruity drink she had been nursing all night. He feels the back of his neck heat up with rage, eyes clouding over with bloodlust. His hands tighten up on the steering wheel, the plastic crackling beneath his knuckles.

“Hannibal?” Will's voice sounds choked, like he is clenching his jaw.

Hannibal looks over and Will’s jaw is clenched, as he swallows compulsively. Hannibal knows what Will is going to say before he speaks again.

“Would you pull over? Please? I'm-” Will cuts himself off, a hand ghosting over his stomach.

Hannibal is already pulling off the road.

Will barely has his door open and his seat belt unbuckled before his stomach revolts and he is sick in the ditch on the side of the road. He almost falls out, heaving still, but Hannibal reaches out to steady him, holding him up and watching with a cool, clinical detachment as Will continues to vomit. He fights the urge to wrinkle his nose as the smell of vomit covers up the smell of alcohol already covering up the smell of Will. Hannibal rubs a small soothing circle on Will's shoulders as he begins to dry heave.

“It's all right. You're okay. Take a breath, Will,” Hannibal coaxes as Will leans forward once more, moaning low in his throat. He holds Will up as he vomits once more. Will coughs, sputters, and spits before he sits back up and nods shakily in Hannibal's direction.

“I'm sorry.”

Hannibal shakes his head. “No need. Are you all right to keep driving now?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Will answers as he snaps the seat belt back into place. As he puts the car back into gear, Hannibal wonders if vomiting has sobered him up somewhat. His speech certainly seems a bit clearer, but the adrenaline of vomiting will clear even the dizziest of heads.

“We are only about five minutes away now,” he says gently. “Close your eyes if you wish.”

Will mumbles a reply as his head lolls back to the side, pressing his cheek up against the cool glass of the window once more. Hannibal glanced at him, making sure he was comfortable before turning his attentions back to the road.

The remainder of the drive back to his house is mercifully uneventful, and when he pulls the car to a stop, Will stirs, straightening a bit, but does not wake. Hannibal sighs. There is nothing he would not do for Will – his poor, misguided Will – but he is not looking forward to the task of getting the man inside and up the stairs.

Getting out of the car, Hannibal quietly walks around to the passenger side and opens the door. Crouching beside the car, he gently reaches out and touches the side of Will’s face with a light brush of fingers, just enough to wake the sleeping man from his alcohol-induced slumbers.

Will immediately starts, not used to being woken in such a fashion, and glances around with wide panicked eyes – the eyes of a frightened doe.

“It’s all right, Will,” Hannibal says soothingly, “You’re safe. You’re all right. We’ve arrived at my home.”

“Y-yes, yes,” Will breathes, nodding. He immediately winces – the sharp movements of his head causing him pain.

“Come,” Hannibal rises, offering Will his hand. “Let’s get you inside.”

Will gladly accepts, allowing Hannibal to pull him out of the car. He stumbles a bit as he gets to his feet, alcohol making his limbs heavy, and Hannibal slips an arm around his waist, encouraging Will to lean on him. As they make the trek from the driveway to the front door, Hannibal tries not to think about the warm weight of Will pressed up against his side, tries to pretend that he is not so very tempted to press his nose into the crown of Will’s curls to seek out the scent that is buried beneath the vomit and the alcohol and the smoke. Rather, he presses those urges aside and escorts Will through the front door. He leads him through the foyer and straight to the staircase. Will balks at the bottom of it.

“Something wrong?” Hannibal asks, noting how stiff Will suddenly feels.

“I don’t… I mean… I could just sleep on the couch,” Will mumbles, waving his free hand towards a darkened part of the house. “I don’t want to be a bother…”

“You’re no bother at all,” Hannibal insists, “Besides, I think you’ll find my guest rooms are much more comfortable than the sofa in the parlor.”

Will gives a half hearted shrug. “But the sofa isn’t up _stairs_.”

Hannibal smirks, though it is lost on Will. “We will conquer the stairs together. Come.” Though it is not without effort (and several stops to regain their footing), the two of them manage to make it up the steps. As Hannibal guides Will down the semi-darkened hallway towards a spare bedroom, he cannot help but think that in all of his imaginings, he never anticipated taking Will to bed in this manner. While he rather enjoys manipulating Will and watching him squirm, he much prefers Will with a (mostly) clear head. Intoxicated Will is not nearly as satisfying as the Will he has come to know.

Inside the room, Hannibal leads Will to the bed, making sure he is seated on the end of it before leaving him to switch on a light. He dims it as much as possible, but Will still grimaces at the intrusion.

“’s bright,” he hisses, covering his face with his hands, raking them over his face. His fingers splay over his features, and he peers through this fingers at Hannibal, who looks down on him with a level gaze. “You should really play poker, you know.”

Hannibal raises and eyebrow. “Poker?”

“Yup,” Will nods once, his chin sagging to his chest, as if the weight of his head is too much. “You’ve got a great poker face. I never… never know what you’re thinking.”

“Perhaps that is for the best, William. Some things are better left unknown.”

“Not between friends,” he offers, his eyes slipping shut. “Friends tell friends things… or so I’m told. I don’t have any friends.”

“No? Then what am I?” Hannibal queries, fussing with the bed and pulling down the covers.

Will shrugs. “Something more. And less. And important.”

“I see. Well, we shall discuss it more in the morning then, because, as your psychiatrist, I recommend sleep.”

“Sleep sounds… good,” Will agrees, his mouth lifting into an uncharacteristic smile. Hannibal motions for him to scoot up the bed and he does, flopping onto his back and sinking his head into the pillow. Without asking permission, Hannibal unlaces Will’s shoes and slips them off his feet; Hannibal will _not_ have muddy shoes soiling his bed linens, even if they are just the spare ones. Will sighs contentedly, his eyes drifting shut. Hannibal smiles despite himself. Seeing Will so at peace, it’s _delicious._

Before he has a chance to embarrass himself, he moves to the en suite bathroom, returning with a cool glass of water and two small tablets, which he places on the nightstand.

“I’m going to say goodnight then, Will. I’ve left you some water and aspirin, in case you want it during the night. Do you require anything else?”

Will mumbles sleepily, rolling onto his side. “Thanks for this… I really appreciate it.”

“It is no trouble.”

“Really… There was no one else I could have called… just you,” he continues, rambling and slurring ever so slightly. “You were the only one I trusted.”

Hannibal stands stock still, listening.

“I knew you’d come for me.”

“Always, William,” Hannibal assures him. Before he can think better of it, he reaches out and brushes a hand over the top of the younger man’s hair. Will does not flinch away, merely sighs again, visibly relaxing and giving himself over to sleep.

Hannibal does not linger, but exits the room silently, pulling the door closed but not latched. He does not want Will to feel trapped should he wake in the middle of the night in an unfamiliar place.

Heading to his own room, Hannibal enters his bathroom and strips, placing his clothing in the hamper. The smell of the bar clings to his clothing and his skin and he wishes to rid himself of it. He steps under the steaming spray of the water and can almost feel the stench sluicing off of him. He basks in the feel of the water and the steam that rises around him and wishes that he had been able to get Will cleaned up, get him back to smelling like Will. However, he knows that it would not have ended well. Though he is beginning to sober up, Will is in no state to wash himself… and tempting as the notion is (very tempting indeed, from the reaction his body takes to that thought), Hannibal could not have helped him and continued to keep his professional distance. It hasn’t been easy thus far… the lines between friend and colleague and psychiatrist and partner have all become so blurred. He finds it isn’t easy to keep himself collect when he’s with Will. Something about the man’s personality just draws him in. Will makes his living by getting inside the heads of those around him, making it hard to discern where the real Will actually lies. But he is determined to figure Will Graham out – of that he is certain.

Satisfied that he no longer smells like the dregs of society, Hannibal exits his shower, toweling off and pulling on his robe. It’s late – nearly half past two – and he is looking forward to getting some sleep of his own. He finds a clean set of pajamas and dresses for bed, neatly hanging his robe on the bedpost before slipping beneath the covers.

Hannibal closes his eyes, breathing deeply and welcoming the stillness. He spares a thought for Will, hoping he’s managed to sleep as well, but it isn’t long before he drifts off to sleep.

>>>>

A noise rouses Hannibal Lecter awake. He has lived in this house for years. He knows every floorboard, every creaky stair, every click of a door and groan of woodwork. But he does not know this sound. Immediately, his eyes fly open. In the dark, he doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. Just waits. He listens. Again. There. He breathes slowly, in and out, gathering himself. The intruder does not stand a chance, does not know what he is up against. But he will.

Hannibal holds his breath, tensing his muscles, ready to leap out of bed and surprise this would-be attacker before he has a chance to make his move when suddenly, he hears a sniff.

A familiar sniff.One he’s heard hundreds of times before.

Instantly, he relaxes, his body accommodating for the rush of adrenaline and working to regulate itself once more. Inhaling soundlessly, he opens his eyes, seeing exactly who he expected to find standing at the foot of his bed.

“William.”

“Doctor Lecter… I’m so sorry to bother you… I just… I can’t sleep… I-I don’t know where I am. What time is it?”

Hannibal could laugh at himself for getting so worked up over harmless, broken Will. Hannibal breathes out a bit harsher than he means to. It comes out as sort of a snort.

“Please...please don't laugh at me. I'm serious. This isn't f-funny. I'm...really scared. Doctor Lecter, please,” Will's words come in short bursts, in time with his accelerated breaths.

“I was not laughing, Will,” Hannibal says smoothly, turning the light on his bedside table to the dimmest setting to allow Will to see his surroundings.“You frightened me, that is all. Come, sit.”

Hannibal sits up quickly and peels back the blankets pooled around his hips in one fluid motion. He motions for Will to sit next to him and the man does, plopping unceremoniously onto Hannibal's smooth 1000 thread-count sheets. Hannibal can feel the nervous energy vibrating off of Will.

“What time is it?” Will asks again through a tightly clenched jaw.

“Will, it is 3:27am. You are at my house, more specifically in my bedroom. I brought you here tonight after picking you up from the bar.” Will is trembling, his tremors carrying straight to Hannibal through the mattress. Will's arms are wrapped around himself like his skin is a straightjacket. Hannibal can tell he is trying to steady himself, trying to stave off the panic.

“Okay, okay,” he bites out.

“What is troubling you?” Hannibal tries to be soothing. He holds up his hand so Will can see it; he doesn't want to surprise Will with his touch and make things worse.

“I miss my dogs. I want to go home. I don't want to go home. I want my dogs. I keep seeing things, Doctor Lecter, I don't know what to do.”

“What sort of things are you seeing?” Hannibal keeps his voice low, nonthreatening, emulating calm in hopes that Will can pick up on and internalize it.

“Black antlers,” Will's voice is breathless; he is gasping.

“May I touch you?” Hannibal asks, his hand splayed innocently in the space between them. Will nods vigorously, chest heaving.

“Please…” His voice creaks like a door that is not often opened. Hannibal's hands are on his back now, squeezing his shoulders and rubbing down his spine. He feels Will breathing beneath him, the rise and fall, feels how his muscles knotted with anxiety.

Hannibal massages Will's back gently, basking in the downfall of this man's already fragile mental fortitude. Hannibal relishes every second that Will breaks down before him, but he appreciates it more when he is causing the turmoil. Tonight, like so many others, Will is coming to him to put a stop to the madness. And it may or may not have been Hannibal's intention to put him in the guest bedroom with antlers composing most of the interior decor.

Suddenly, Will collapses into Hannibal's waiting arms. Hannibal smirks softly. He is both Will's anchor and sail – keeping him grounded and also pushing him precariously close to the edge. Hannibal was content to let Will touch the vicious edge of madness, but never let him drown all the way.

Not yet.

“Breathe, William. Everything will be all right.”

Hannibal can feel Will calming down slowly under his touch. He watches as his own dexterous fingers spread over the planes and peaks of Will's back. He imagines spreading these parts of Will across the bed itself. And then he imagines again, but this time Will's body is in pieces across his kitchen counters. Hannibal allows himself to close his eyes and entertain this idea for a moment longer than he should have. He breathes in slowly through his nose to quell the thoughts raging inside him and he is assaulted by the smell hanging in Will's curls. He still smells like alcohol and the bar, but now his scent is lit with the bright overtone of terror. Hannibal revels in it.

Will lifts his head and his eyes are rimmed with red. He sniffs once, twice, and closes his eyes again. “I'm sorry.”

“As I said earlier, you have nothing to apologize for. Would you like to stay here for the remainder of the night?”

“Oh- I... I couldn't. You need to sleep, and I-”

“And I will sleep better knowing you are sleeping as well next to me.” Will looks dubious still. “Please, Will. I insist.”

Will nods and slides down the headboard to the soft pillows that are waiting for him. His eyes are still wide, stricken and confused. Hannibal pulls the sheets and duvet over him and lays down himself. He knows he won't be able to sleep with Will this close to him, smelling the maddening way that he does, but Hannibal doesn't mind at all. He is more than happy to spend a night in such close contact with this troubled, broken man. He is ecstatic that this evening worked out in his favor. He will remain awake the next few hours and imagine the way that Will's insides will feel. He will mentally go through his Rolodex of recipes and decide what ones are going to fit Will the best.

Hannibal runs his tongue along his teeth in the darkness. He can hear Will shifting and breathing next to him and knows by the pattern of it that he is still awake. Hannibal is about to ask Will if he needs anything when the other man speaks first.

“Doc-...uh, Hannibal?”

“Yes, Will?” Hannibal answers without missing a beat.

“Um. Oh. I thought you were sleeping. Never mind,” he says quietly.

“Will, why would you say my name if you thought I was asleep? Obviously, you have something of importance to say. Please, speak your mind.”

“No, I can't. It's okay. I'm-”

“Do not say you are sorry, William, and tell me what you meant to say.” Hannibal can hear Will swallow down his words, and he knows how his slightly harsh tone has affected him.

“It was just about that woman at the bar.”

Hannibal feels himself stiffen and curls his hands into light fists. His possessiveness leaks out of the cracks in his composure. Will is his. His possession, his toy to play with and break and damage, his and his alone – no one else can have him. “Did she hurt you?”

“Did she- what? No, no.”

“William, do not lie to me.”

“No, Hannibal, she didn't. You got there before anything happened. Anything that I recall, anyway,” Will says the last piece quietly, almost to himself.

Hannibal nods to the darkness, his fists unclenching. “What about her then?”

“Well, what she said about you. She called you my boyfriend.”

“So she did.”

“…Are you my boyfriend?”

Hannibal’s eyebrows raise and he blinks into the darkness. He considers his response carefully before replying – this is an opportunity to introduce a delightful new twist on the game they’re playing. He wonders what’s at work here, whether it’s Will’s inebriated state, his vulnerability, or his fragile mental status that is causing him to voice this concern. Either way, the premise is fascinating.

“Do you think I am?” he asks, ever the psychiatrist, answering a question with a question.

“I… I think…” He can feel shift in the mattress as Will squirms beside him, his discomfort with the frankness of their conversation manifesting itself in a physical manner. He rolls onto his side, facing away from Hannibal. “…I think no. I think she made an assumption, but she was wrong.”

“Why would she assume that I was your boyfriend and not just a friend?” Hannibal presses. He’s not sure how far he can take this conversation, but he’s willing to push Will just as far as he’ll go.

“I dunno,” Will shrugs, the gesture awkward as he’s lying on his side. “Because you came to pick me up. Because we’re friends. Because I trust you.”

Hannibal can’t help but smile. His poor Will – he won’t know until it’s too late that trusting him was a mistake. “So if you trust me, then tell me – do you ever think of me as more than just your friend?”

In the stillness of the room, Hannibal can hear Will’s breath hitch. “I… I don’t know.”

“William,” Hannibal repeats, more sternly this time, knowing the reaction he will elicit. “Do not play games with me now.”

“I’m just… I’m not sure it’s appropriate I tell you.”

“Why not? We have already established that you trust me, and I hold whatever you say in the highest confidence. While up until now, I have been your psychiatrist, I am foremost your friend. I should hope that while you are in my bed you would not think of me as anything less.”

Will makes a sputtering noise. “Don’t… say it like that.”

“Say what?”

“About me… in your bed.”

Hannibal waits a half a beat before asking, “Are you not in my bed?”

“I am,” Will sighs heavily. “But it sounds so… different when you say it like that.”

“The words are merely words. It is how you interpret them that gives them meaning.” Hannibal props himself up on an elbow and reaches out for Will, gently pulling on his shoulder until the man has rolled onto his back, so he can meet his eyes in the near darkness of the room. “What do those words mean to you?”

Will obstinately refuses to look at Hannibal. Hannibal lets his thumb idly stroke Will’s shoulder in what is meant to be a comforting gesture. Will doesn’t stiffen any further, but neither does he relax. The room is too dark for Hannibal to clearly make out his features and ascertain his thoughts from the expression on his face, so he waits, wondering with every passing second which way the pendulum that is Will’s emotion is swinging – towards him or away from him.

It is a thrilling sort of mystery, not knowing exactly what will happen next; he usually knows or can at least predict, but with Will (always with Will) he is never quite sure what the man’s next move will be. It’s why he enjoys him so much. He is often mesmerized by Will and the way his clever mind wrestles with his thoughts and feelings, his fears and desires. Hannibal could study Will for lifetimes and never quite know what he would do next.

And while Hannibal Lecter is a patient man, he is not _that_ patient. He grips Will’s arm, not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to demand an answer.

“We have already established that you are safe here. So let me ask you: What are you feeling, William?”

It takes Hannibal a moment to fully process what happens next. For as soon as the question leaves his lips, Will’s mouth is upon his, as if trying to recapture the words, to take what has been spoken aloud and give them back, press them back into his mouth. Hannibal inhales sharply as their teeth clack together. A shudder runs through him as he recognizes the coppery taste of blood – whether it’s his or Will’s he cannot tell – and opens his mouth to Will. The rough stubble covering his mouth and cheeks and chin is a sharp contrast to the wet glide of Will’s tongue, which carries the lingering aftertaste of alcohol and something sour that Hannibal does not wish to consider.

He does not fight Will for control of the kiss, rather letting Will do as he is wont. Will’s frenzied movements (like everything else about the man) are controlled by pure emotion, not finesse. He seems to be seeking everything all at once – comfort, lust, aggression, vulnerability – Hannibal drinks them all in, savoring every nuance and cataloguing how he will show William how to be better, more controlled, but just as passionate.

After several moments, his hands come up to frame Will’s face and gently pull him away. Will is panting when Hannibal pulls away and he keeps his eyes shut as he struggles to reclaim his breath.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, keeping his face downcast. “I didn’t know… I shouldn’t have…”

Hannibal cuts him off by running his thumb over Will’s lips. “Hush. I asked how you were feeling and you answered. Quite succinctly.”

“You’re not… angry?” Will opens his eyes and looks at Hannibal in disbelief.

“You’re not… angry?” Will opens his eyes and looks at Hannibal in disbelief.

“You were honest, William. How could I be angry with you?”

For the first time, Will relaxes. Hannibal can see it and feel it in his body. He makes a move to lean in again, but Hannibal holds him at bay, his hands still cradling Will’s face. “What…?”

“You were honest, and now it is my turn to be so. I am not certain that continuing upon this course of action at this time would be the wisest possible move.” Will shakes his head, clearly not understanding, so Hannibal elaborates. “I am concerned that you still have too much alcohol in your bloodstream for this to be a level-headed decision.”

“…You’re saying I can’t trust what I’m feeling because I’m intoxicated?” Will sounds dejected as a kicked dog.

“No,” Hannibal says carefully. “I’m saying that I would hate to be taking advantage of your inebriated state. If I am to fuck you, Will Graham, it will be when you have a clear head. I want you to be fully aware of what is happening, William.”

Will opens his mouth and closes it again in the darkness, a half-formed gasp trapped in his throat. _Did Hannibal really just say…?_ Will knows he is still very intoxicated, but he could not possibly mishear an entire sentence... Could he? 

Next to him, Hannibal rolls over onto his back, creating a barrier between the two of them. Will wants to know what is going on, around him and inside of him. He is feeling an acute rush of emotion and... something else. He tries to breathe around it and listens to even cadence of Hannibal’s breaths in an effort to calm himself once more. After several moments, he tries to speak again, tries to say anything, but the words won't come out. 

It’s probably better that way. His head is buzzing and he lets his eyes close, willing himself to sleep in the midst of his stunned silence and the remnants of his alcohol-induced haze.

>>>>

When Will wakes up, he is confused – more confused than he usually is upon waking. He knows this isn't his bed, but there is no one else next to him and for a horrible second, he fears that he has somehow gone home with that awful woman from the bar. He sits up, panic rising in his chest, before he looks around this room. This seems to him like a man's room, and it smells... familiar. Will cannot place what it smells like, but it is on tip of his tongue. He turns on the light on the table next to the bed and is greeted with a small glass of water and two white pills. Gratefully, he chews the pills and gulps the water, his eyes scanning the room for traction, for a design. His eyes catch on an open closet door, peeking through which he sees a plaid suit coat that he recognizes immediately.

_Hannibal._

Relief floods him and he rises from the bed carefully, slowly remembering every detail from the night before. He flexes his hands as mortification washes over him. Did he actually kiss Hannibal? Or was that nothing more than a very vivid alcohol induced dream? Will shakes his head in an attempt to clear it, trying to dislodge Hannibal's words from the folds of his brain.

_If I am to fuck you, William Graham..._

Will walks to the bathroom and turns the tap on. He splashes water on his face to combat the red heat he knows is beginning to spread. Hannibal must hear Will moving around because as he opens the bathroom door back up, the deep voice travels up the stairs.

“Will, are you well? I have made us breakfast. Do come down.”

Will swallows and says he is on the way with a voice cracked like a shattered ribcage.

_I want you to be fully aware of what is happening._

Something simultaneously warm and freezing settles at the base of Will's spine as he gingerly descends the stairs. He follows his nose and the dull noise of shifting pots to the kitchen. “Smells great.”

Hannibal nods. “It's nothing special. Just poached eggs and spiced sausage.”

“Better than I would be eating if I were home,” Will says, sitting on a stool placed near the counter. He runs a hand through his matted curls. “I should head home soon, though. My dogs...”

Hannibal looks at him over the plates he holds in his hands. Will forgets how to breathe and looks down from the icy stare that he is being affixed with. “Of course. I insist you eat first.”

Will nods and picks up a fork, only realizing how hungry he is once the first bite is in his mouth. He watches as Hannibal eats as well, holding his fork with such poise, chewing gracefully. Will is surprised he is not drinking a glass of wine with breakfast; it would fit the scene perfectly. However, the thought of alcohol turns his stomach. He’s had more than enough of the stuff recently, too much… He then remembers that Hannibal has to drive him home and swells with guilt.

“Is something troubling you, William?” The way his name drips off of Hannibal's tongue makes him shiver.

“I'm sorry if I said anything strange last night. I'm sorry for keeping you awake. I'm...um..” Will doesn't know what to say. “Did we...um...Did anything happen last night?”

“You don't recall, William? Perhaps you need to take a shower after breakfast to clear your head,” Hannibal lets his last three words hang on his tongue like a sweet wine. Will's fork clanks to the table.

“So we did...?”

“We did not do anything other than kiss, William. You expressed interest, but I did not feel comfortable knowing how intoxicated you had been. If this makes you uncomfortable, then we need not mention it again. It can be written off as nothing more than a drunken evening.”

Will swallows again. This is happening. This is what he wants. And he knows it. He knows Hannibal knows it, too. But how is he to say it? He can’t just ask for it? Can he?

“N-no. I-I'm...um, I mean-”

“It would do you well to stop stuttering like a schoolboy, William. Tell me what you want to be done.”

“I want you to fuck me.” Will's mouth feels full of cotton and his hairline is prickled with sweat. He can’t believe he’s just said that, aloud. But the words dislodge something warm and neglected in his stomach.

“And fuck you I shall.”

And suddenly Hannibal is on top of him and all Will can smell, see, hear, feel is his warm lithe body. He is being picked up and Hannibal bites at his ear and his neck. The teeth linger over his jugular and Will moans. He is being carried up the stairs unceremoniously, but he does not mind at all. Before he knows it, the pair of them are back in Hannibal's room and Will's equilibrium shifts. Will hears the glass that was filled with water earlier fall to the ground and break from the sudden weight of the both of them.

Hannibal is everywhere. He is discovering pieces and places that Will did not even know existed before this moment. Will is writhing and whimpering and he knows he must sound like a high school virgin underneath Hannibal's finesse, but this all feels so good that he can't bring himself to care or stop. Hannibal is all sharp angles of bones beneath tight skin and teeth and fingernails and wet lips and tongue. He is peeling back the shirt that Will has slept in and Will wrestles himself out of it, his shoulders rising and falling with desire. Hannibal leans forward and bites down on one of Will's shoulders. He cries out, and Hannibal licks the grooves his teeth have left in the skin delicately.

Hannibal reaches down and deftly undoes Will's pants, leaving him in nothing but his worn and slightly threadbare boxers. Will only has half a second to think that he wishes he was wearing something other than blue plaid out-of-a-package boxers before Hannibal is pushing him into the mattress with such a force Will is sure he is going to bruise. Hannibal is grinding against him and Will is melting beneath him, already threatening to spill over and come undone. He tries to calm himself down, he can't end this, not yet.

“Do you still want this?” Hannibal whispers in his ear, his voice deep and throaty.

“God, yes, ” Will moans, arching his hips a bit to meet Hannibal's and create the friction he so desperately needs. Mentally, he is cursing himself for sounding like such a needy adolescent. The most action he has seen any time recently has been his own hand, and even that does not happen too frequently—it worries the dogs. Nothing has felt this good for a long, long time and Will never wants it to end. It might feel wrong on several levels, but at the foundation it is so, so right.

“Very well.” And Hannibal is off of him, the weight, the pressure, all gone. Will whimpers loudly, and cannot even find it in himself to feel ashamed. What is happening? Has Hannibal changed his mind?

“Hanni-”

“William. I need to remove my clothes,” Hannibal says this as though it is the most obvious thing in the world and, well, it kind of is. Will turns on his side, panting, heaving slightly. He feels heavy and uncomfortable.

He watches as Hannibal slowly, carefully removes his suit jacket. He rights the sleeves and holds it by the shoulder seams, shaking it out a bit before opening his closet door and placing it on a hanger. He turns to face Will and meticulously undoes each button on the vest he had on underneath the jacket. Will is entranced by the disheveled look of his hair as it falls over his eyes. He has only seen Hannibal like that one other time, and that was after he killed a man.

Will swallows compulsively and writhes on the bed, a moan trapped in his teeth. “Hannibal-”

“Do not rush me, William. I will be there shortly.” Hannibal is still unbuttoning, taking his sweet time.

Will throbs with need, his groin pulsing, demanding attention. He reaches down, his hand snaking over his stomach, beneath the waistband of his boxers. His hand closes lightly around his cock when-

“William! No. You are not to touch yourself.”

Will stares wide eyed at Hannibal, his hands still in between his legs. Hannibal looks at Will while he folds the vest and places it on top of the dresser in the corner. Then, like lightening, he is untying his tie and his knees are at Will's hips and he is grasping Will's hands around the wrists and pulling, yanking them up and over his head. Will feels soft cool fabric tightly around his wrists where Hannibal's hands just were and his hands are strung up above him, affixed to the headboard. Hannibal stays where he is and begins to unbutton the white dress shirt that was under the vest – so many layers Will thinks – straddling him but not allowing any contact. Will's hips arch again, he can't help it, and Hannibal admonishes him with a look.

He maintains the eye contact until the last button is undone and he stands once more. Hannibal turns his back again and peels the white fabric from his skin.

A whispered gasp catches in Will's throat as Will sees this man's back. Every inch of it is wonderful, muscular, defined. Will watches the muscles ripple and move as Hannibal carefully folds and places the shirt on top of the vest. He bends down to untie his shoes and Will sees his skin in a new light. It is covered in marks, deep raised scars. Some shallower; white and shiny. Others deep and pink and stretched. Will wonders what the scar on his own back looks like (he doesn't make a point to look often), and finds himself burning with the desire to touch every single line on the older man's back. To feel and rub and lick and taste--

“Hannibal, fuck. Please- please,” Will says, begging and breathless. He is achingly hard and watching Hannibal undress so slowly is becoming painful, bordering on unpleasant.

Hannibal turns around and sluggishly undoes the button on his pants. As he is lowering the zipper he says, “William, I take very good care of all of my things. My clothing especially.” The fabric pools around his ankles and he steps out of it. Will is in awe of the bulge he sees sheathed in silk. Hannibal shakes and folds his pants. Will trembles, tied to the bed. “And I plan to take very good care of you, as well.”

Hannibal is on top of him once again and Will almost comes with the new sensation of skin against skin. Hannibal's mouth catches his and Will lets Hannibal lead, his tongue exploring and tasting and wanting more, so much more. Will wants to crawl inside of this man and stay forever. He wants to let Hannibal consume him entirely. Hannibal's hands glide down his ribcage and stay on his hips for several moments too long. When Hannibal's hands finally make contact with the sensitive skin on his inner thigh, he can't help but smile into the crushing kiss being administered to his mouth. He can feel every second passing. He knows every moment, he knows who he is. This is how normal, everyday people must feel all the time – well aside from the bone-crushing weight on top of him and the earth-shattering need between his legs.

“What do you find funny, William?” Will wants Hannibal to always use his full name from now on.

“My name is Will Graham. It is 1:46 pm, and I am-”

“About to be fucked senseless.”

Hannibal grabs his legs and pulls him forward. The sheets rumple and the tie comes undone, leaving his hands free. He reaches up and runs them across Hannibal's back, feeling each groove and divot, and earning a deep guttural moan from the man on top of him. His hands end their journey on Hannibal's firm and yet soft behind. Hannibal makes a sound that Will can only explain as a growl and Will pushes up against him. Hannibal reaches into the drawer beside the bed and pulls out a small tube. He holds it in one hand and fumbles around in the drawer for a few wild seconds. Will has never seen Hannibal do anything so recklessly. Hannibal growls again, but this time it sounds different.

“What? What's wrong?”

“I don't have a condom.” Hannibal's teeth are gritted and god, he is angry. Will has never seen anything so hot. This man, this perfect majestic man, is this angry because he cannot have sex with him.

“I- that's alright. I mean- I haven't... I've never-”

Before Will can even finish his sentence, Hannibal is squirting the lube onto three of his fingers. He reaches down and caresses Will's opening with one, going slowly, taking his time. Will has never felt anything like this in his life. He wants more. He wants it now.

“Breathe.” Hannibal instructs and Will does. On his exhale, two fingers are inside of him. Will freezes, tensing. It isn't pleasant. Hannibal does not move his hand. “Relax, William. I am not here to hurt you. Relax and let the tension leave you.”

Will tries, he does. Hannibal moves his fingers a tiny amount and Will cries out, mostly in pain.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“NO, no please don't stop.”

Will is wild with desire. He knows this is going to feel good once his body has acclimated, and oh god he wants it so badly. And suddenly, Hannibal leans down and his mouth is on Will's swollen, leaking cock and Will feels himself immediately loosen up. Hannibal is inside of him and he is inside Hannibal. He has never feel so full, so satisfied. His mouth is a faucet for a litany of moans and curse words and half-baked pleas.

And then, he is on the precipice. He sucks in his breath. He buries his fingers in Hannibal's soft hair. He bites his lip, and releases it, feeling blood trailing down his chin. He flexes his fingers, and his toes, he bucks his hips. Once, twice. And he is blind, screaming with pleasure as the ecstasy floods his veins and leaves his body. Hannibal removes his fingers slowly, but keeps his mouth planted. He bobs his head slowly a few times, tongue working. He makes eye contact with Will and swallows three times. Will's mouth hangs open, lopsided. His fingers are knotted in Hannibal's hair and he does not plan to move them anytime soon. Hannibal slowly sits up, wiping his mouth with the edge of his thumb. The gesture is obscene and Will wants to remember it forever. He falls back against the pillows, spent.

“Wonderful job, William. You lasted longer than I thought you would. Next time, I expect the same type of treatment from you.”

Hannibal moves so he is lying next to Will. He pulls the blankets up over the both of them. Will huddles closer to Hannibal. Before he drifts to sleep, he thinks he hears Hannibal say, “You are mine now, William.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Well, there's that. We hope that you all enjoyed it. Comment and let us know anything you thought of it!


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